I hate to moan, but . . .
About seven days after Nelson leaves me and Audrey behind to return to his luxury penthouse flat in London, I always get a little down – which is unusual for me.
Apart from when I have a hangover – when my cast-iron defences begin to crumble and fail – I manage to keep any depression that threatens to rear its ugly head safely at bay, buried and sealed with the efficiency of long habit.
That doesn’t alter the fact that I miss my brother when he isn’t around; he lives too far away. Still, the situation could be substantially worse: he could live next door.
On a tenuously connected note, I wrote a new song yesterday, another one about sex, obsession and torture. It’s called Moaning Lisa. Here’s the first verse:
Moaning Lisa takes her teacher home
He likes to hear her moan
She tells him she loves him
But there’s something wrong
He said: ‘I want to hear you moan.’
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Ahhh, I miss my sister too when she’s been home and then goes back to Brighton. I suppose it’s a bit like Santa coming or something, but Santa dressed in make up and a skirt.
Jo,
Is your sister coming to the Town Mill gig?
At least you have a dog to keep you company. I only have an enormous television. Santa in make up and a skirt – now there’s an idea for Christmas.
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